His head tilts ever so slightly, like he can tell.
When my coworkers talk about the chills Soven gives them, it’s all ‘frailty of life’ this, and ‘acute sense of my mortality’ that.
And for an undying Lord of Darkness, that makes sense.
But when he looks at me, I get this feeling like walking through an old house, where all the furniture has sheets draped over them while the house is dormant, and suddenly, someone is dragging the sheets off. Like he’s unveiling me; like plucking petals off a flower, to see what’s hiding at the center.
“You would really do that,” he says, unconvinced. He makes it sound like I’m chopping off an arm.
“Shiver-rly isn’t dead yet,” I say, trying a wide smile. It feels like the best thought I’ve had today, until I hear myself say it and wince. I cough. “Uh. Yeah. It’s no big deal.”
He’s still for a long moment, before he nods. He tilts his head to the ritual floor. “Come then.”
It’s then, creeping down into the ritual floor, careful not to step on any of the lines, that I realize I’ve never been so far into this room. Maybe I’m too used to being able to duck back out the door as soon as I’m done.
Standing by the Sanctum doors, hugging the walls, is an entirely different experience from crossing to the middle, which borders on agoraphobic. I’ve never needed the closeness of my flimsy cubicle walls so much. The sound of my breath echoes off the tiles, the only sound in the hall, making me feel like I should maybe hold my breath. My footsteps against the marble punctuate the air so loud I nearly wince with each one.
I hike my skirt up a bit as I hop onto the altar Soven gestures to, straightening it as I sit down and lay back.
The stone is cold to touch, and there’s something about laying across this ledge in the center of the room that makes me feel more than exposed. How can I feel practically naked with all my clothes still on?
Maybe it’s the giant mirror on the ceiling.
It’s pretty high up, but I can see myself, wavy brown hair spread around me, the lush dark green of my skirt. It’s too far away to see my freckles or birthmarks, or the buttons on my blouse.
Oh shit, I think my nipples are hard because it’s so damn cold in the ritual space. I try to inconspicuously crane my head up for a better look to check if they’re visible through my blouse.
“Everything all right?” Soven asks, crossing to my side.
“Yes!” I squeak, a little too quickly. Ugh.
His voice is deeper than the abyss. When he talks to me, sometimes his words reverberate down my body and find all my hollow spaces. Too often I find it’s left me biting my lip.
It's hard for me to believe there's absolutely nothing under that cloak. There's gotta be at least bones or something. I speculated as much to Janice from HR once, and she laughed, “Why, so you can jump those bones?”
Suffice it to say, I haven't told anyone about what his voice does to me or my thoughts about what he really looks like. I pretend not to think about my undead boss in any unprofessional way.
“Just lay back and relax,” he intones, like he’s used to doing this. He must be, he’s done probably hundreds of rituals, and this is my first. “Close your eyes.”
There is something soothing in the way he flips through pages of his tomes, muttering incantations as he sprinkles herbs and splashes of potions into the cold burning fire.
As soothing as listening to him move about is, I can’t help but feel the moments stretch thin with curiosity and anticipation. I wonder how he’s going to make me shiver. I’d think the easiest way would be to turn the thermostat way down, but he seems to have a more arcane approach.
I almost startle out of my skin when his touch ghosts down my bare shoulder. A whisper crawls up my neck, and I feel something soft, something almost like skin with a light down of fur over it. It’s like the soft side of cured leather, but alive.
I shiver alright. I shiver right down to my godsdamnned vagina, that moth-wing flutter low in my belly as my clit pulses awake with interest. The need for him to drag that touch, mouth or whatever it is, over more of my body is so visceral, I nearly moan.
If he couldn’t tell my nipples were hard through my bra before, I’m almost absolutely sure he can now.
I can feel the magic buzzing in the air as the last ingredient completes the ritual, but I keep my eyes squeezed shut. I’ve seen the light blaze from under the door when he’s done rituals before.
The air abates, and after a few minutes I hope it’s safe enough to peek around. When I look up again, his attention is buried back in his books, as he scribbles something down.
I guess he doesn’t need me now, and I should probably get back to work.
Still, I pause when I get to the door, glancing back at him.
“…I’ve never been kissed, either,” I say after a moment.